


All Ashes Again

by grantairehair



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1960's AU, Alternate Universe - Hippies, Alternate Universe - Historical, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Implied abuse, LSD, M/M, Multi, Vietnam War, references to rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantairehair/pseuds/grantairehair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'60s AU. In which there is the war in Vietnam, student protests erupting across the country, antiwar protests, the fight for gender/racial equality, and the overall push for a more liberal government. Enjolras fights for freedom in all the wrong places, Grantaire enjoys the popular drug culture, Combeferre knows they need to focus on more domestic issues like equality, and Cosette can't sit and do nothing while people are fighting and dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me getting extremely tired of all of my usual ships/modern AUs. Let me know what you think!

August 1964

Éponine Thénardier knew that she would probably have better luck going to sleep if the insistent buzzing of radio static and unwanted news wasn’t crawling into her ears and making it impossible to shut off her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn it off. Not with everything that was happening. She didn’t want to fall asleep for fear that the world would be different tomorrow, scarier than it had been before. Words of bombs and napalm and so many people dying snuck into her drowsy thoughts and whispered in her ears until she thought sleep would be impossible.

So much fighting, so much death, and the promise of so much more. 

Éponine had barely settled into an uneasy sleep when the insistent tapping on her window startled her into lucidity. When she had convinced herself that it wasn’t simply a hallucination brought on by her drowsiness, she crossed the room to her window in order to see what was going on. Despite her attempt at tiptoeing, the pads on her bare feet made a quiet thump on the cold hardwood floors with every step she took. The ominous radio static, sticky tiptoeing, and drumming on the window made the hairs on the back of Éponine’s neck stand up. So much for a quiet, autumn night.

Éponine threw open the curtains and laughed gleefully, all traces of gloom gone from her mind as soon as she saw the figure demanding to be let inside; of course it would be Cosette. The other girl stood on the edge fire escape with her eyes shining like a cat’s, her long, white nightgown streaming out behind her in the soft autumn breeze and her smile illuminating the night. Éponine opened the window, and Cosette flung one of her legs over to climb in.

The second she cleared the window frame, Cosette launched herself at Éponine, who, taken by surprise, stumbled backward until they both fell backwards on the bed, giggling quietly and drinking in each other’s presence.

“What brings you here so late, my darling?” Éponine whispered, reaching to brush a wisp of Cosette’s hair behind her ear as to see her radiant face more completely.

Cosette ducked into Éponine’s shoulder and whispered, “Papa was gone again, and I just heard about all of those bombings on our ships in the Gulf of Tonkin. I don’t want to be alone.”

Éponine kissed her hair. “Well that’s a lovely coincidence because I don’t want to be alone either.” 

Moving out of the abusive situation with her parents was the best decisions Éponine made, she knew, but some things are hard to handle alone—such as the nightly review of the horrors in Southeast Asia, who had been bombed last, how many had heroically lost their lives today, how important it was to never lose faith in this critical fight to liberate these poor South Vietnamese. Éponine shivered as cool air wafted through the forgotten open window. Cosette put her arms around Éponine’s waist to warm her up, then leaned forward to kiss Éponine deeply. Éponine sighed into the kiss and let herself melt into Cosette, relishing the feeling of not having to go through this alone.

Cosette broke away after a few moments and rested her forehead against Éponine’s. “The good thing is that we don’t have to be. Not anymore.” Cosette told her.

Éponine smiled and nuzzled her nose against Cosette’s. “No. We don’t.”

They stayed like that for a while, laying intertwined under the covers and relishing in their closeness like they had so many nights before although not quite on a night like this. After a while, Cosette frowned. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” 

Cosette sighed as she felt Éponine’s tender fingers stroking circles on her back and closed her eyes. “We’re sending people over to Vietnam, and they’re dying. People who we went to school with, who we graduated with last spring… dead now. Not to mention the thousands of Vietnamese who are hurt by all of this violence, too. And what are we supposed to do, just sit and watch?” Cosette’s voice broke at the end, her voice trailing off into resignation.

“I don’t know, Cosette,” Éponine told her truthfully. She placed her hand on Cosette’s cheek and lifted the other girl’s downturned face to meet her eyes, stubbornly demanding her attention until Cosette finally looked up. “But I know that if there’s a way to do something good in the middle of all of this destruction and madness, you’ll find it, my love.”

-

“Hey, turn on the TV.” Combeferre demanded as he walked into the living room, slamming the door behind him.

Grantaire and Bahorel looked up at him dumbly. “Hmmm?” Grantaire replied.

Combeferre took inventory of both of their states and shook his head. “Goddamn. Are you both seriously tripping? Now?”

Bahorel giggled, “What’s so important?”

Combeferre sighed and turned on the TV. “Some North Vietnamese torpedo boats fired on a US warship a few days ago. I’m sure you two were probably too baked to notice. But Congress just passed a resolution that basically allows the President to do whatever he wants in retaliation and use all necessary means to ensure the safety of US allies in Asia.”

Grantaire shook his head, all wiry black curls tumbling all over his forehead, into his eyes, onto his shoulders and back. “Combeferre,” He put his hand on the scholar’s shoulder, “I think that you,” he paused again, closing his eyes to choose the right words, “need to calm down and wait until you’re a little less,” he opened his eyes a tad to gesture at all of Combeferre, “fuzzy.” He leaned back and let out a happy sigh, obviously satisfied with his monologue. 

Combeferre rolled his eyes and removed Grantaire’s hand from his shoulder and stood up, looking down at Grantaire and Bahorel . “Damn you all. We’ve as good as gone to war, and you don’t even care.”

Bahorel shrugged and exhaled deeply. “It was inevitable.”

“And unnecessary!” Combeferre shouted. “Do you know Enjolras wants to enlist?”

Grantaire’s eyes flew open, and he squinted up at Combeferre. “W-what?”

Combeferre threw up his hands. “Yes. Of course. I mention Enjolras’s name and suddenly you’re all ears. He wants to fight for democracy, for capitalism, for freedom!” He shook his head. “But that’s not what they’re doing over there, God knows. I’m sure he’ll figure out soon enough.”

So he’s enlisting?” Grantaire asked, his watery, bloodshot, honest eyes probing Combeferre.

“No,” Combeferre said. “No, his parents aren’t letting him, and since he’s not eighteen, there’s no way he can legally enlist. But if we’re still there after graduation, you can bet he’ll be in line the very next day. And with his birthday at the end of November, who knows what he’ll do?”

Grantaire relaxed and shrugged. “Oh. Well he can fight and die for freedom for all I care. It’s not like our magnificent statue could go any other way.”

He let his head sink into the back of the couch again, a dazed and satisfied look coming over his face as he sank back down into the acid-induced euphoria. Bahorel draped himself over Grantaire’s legs before closing his eyes and following suit.

Combeferre let out an angry huff and left.

-

The world was spinning, just the way Grantaire liked it.

Beautiful colors flashing behind his eyes, all the patters moving together in a perfectly harmonious cacophony. Everything rippling and moving and dancing and so many colors. Colors.

He felt himself descend into that blissful spiral of thoughts. Everything in his head swirled around him like a pack of sharks, except he welcomed the attack. His thoughts chased each other around and around until he wasn’t and then the sharks weren’t sharks at all, they were just swirling and all that there was was colors, so many colors dancing behind his eyelids.

No statues that looked on him disdainfully when they got into debates at school. No Greek gods going off to war to die for no reason at all. No passionate blondes that would never love him back.

Just colors. Colors, colors, colors, shapes, waves, ripples suddenly consumed his vision and everything was dancing. 

-

Jehan opened the door to looked pityingly at the man lying alone before him. “You know, Grantaire, smoking with you is a lot less fun when you’re already passed out drunk beforehand.”

The unconscious man made no response.

Jehan sighed and leaned down to pick up Grantaire, walking him back to his room and tucking him into bed. The poet pressed a gentle kiss to the drunk’s sleeping forehead and quietly exited the room.

-

December 1964

“I’m going to miss you so much.” Éponine sniffed, clutching at Cosette’s elbows in the middle of the airport terminal.

“I know.” Cosette replied, tears welling in her bright blue eyes as well. “But you know I have to.”

“Why?” Éponine pleaded. “You can stay with me. There’s plenty to do here; you’ve heard Dr. King on the radio and there’s this whole new NOW movement, haven’t you heard? They’re saying that we don’t even need men, that we can get our own jobs and have our own lives.”

Cosette smiled and placed her palm on Éponine’s cheek. “We already knew that, my darling. And we will—have our own jobs and our own lives. Together. Someday.”

Éponine sighed. “What am I going to do without you?”

“Listen to Dr. King and maybe go see Betty Friedan talk sometime.” Cosette smiled. “Find a group of friends and give that university board hell.”

Éponine laughed. “I’m good at that.”

“I know you are.” Cosette whispered.

They stared at each other in loving silence for the next few moments, simply drinking in each other’s presence while they could. Finally, Éponine put her hands on Cosette’s shoulders and pulled her in close. “Do you have to go?” She asked again, not looking for an answer, more like pleading with any higher power that would listen.

Cosette pulled back and pressed her forehead against Éponine’s. “There are people dying over there, Ponine. And the people who aren’t dying are hurting. And I can make them feel better.”

“Why do you have to be so good?” Éponine sighed.

“You wouldn’t love me otherwise.”

“That’s true.” Éponine conceded. “Just keep some of those kinky nurse moments between us, okay? No experimenting on wounded young soldiers,” she instructed jokingly.

Cosette blushed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Éponine closed her eyes and rubbed her nose against Cosette’s. “Just… just stay safe, okay? I’m not losing you. I can’t.”

“I’ll be fine, Ponine.” Cosette reminded her softly. “The nurses are never in the middle of the fighting.”

“But the bombs…” Éponine started.

“Those are mostly ours.” The clock struck two. “My flight leaves in twenty minutes. I need to board,” Cosette said, looking at Éponine desperately.

Éponine whimpered and clutched at her strong and wild Cosette, pulling their faces together for one last kiss before Cosette broke away and began walking briskly toward the gate, stealing glances back at Éponine every few steps. “Don’t fall in love with any soldiers!” Éponine shouted after her.

“Don’t fall in love with any students!”

“Don’t fall in love with anyone who isn’t me!”

“I’ll see you in two years!”

“Such a long time away!”

“You’ll barely have time to miss me!”

“Small chance of that happening!”

“Make some new friends!”

“Be safe, my love! Do not forget me!”

“Never!”

And with a flash of radiant blonde hair and one last consoling smile, Éponine watched as her bold and compassionate lark walked down the airport terminal and into the warzone. 

-

“I can’t believe you fucking graduated early.” Combeferre grumbled.

“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t.” Enjolras countered, smirking at his best friend as they walked through the airport terminal.

“I can’t believe that you’re buying into this war.” Combeferre signed, resigned to Enjolras’s determination and stubbornness.

Enjolras looked over at him, bewildered, “And I can’t believe that you’re not! Why aren’t you jumping at the chance to spread freedom and democracy to people who would otherwise be oppressed by communists?”

“We’re not fighting to liberate Vietnam, Enjolras. We’re fighting to stop the spread of communism. There’s a difference.” Combeferre argued.

“How so?” Enjolras debated. “Communist governments are inherently oppressive. Any government which does not require the consent of its citizens when making decisions concerning them is inherently oppressive. We agree on this, Combeferre!”

“I agree that communism isn’t the most desirable form of government, but is forcing democracy on people who might not have chosen it for themselves an act of liberation? Especially now that there are so many more important issues to fight for here!” Combeferre began listing causes off his fingers while Enjolras purposefully looked away. “Equal rights for people of all races, equal rights for women, the abolition of immigration quotas, increasing government-provided healthcare for the poor, public education reform—”

“It’s hard enough to leave already without you remind me of everything I have to let go!” Enjolras interjected tensely.

Combeferre sighed and looked at Enjolras desperately. He reached up to grab the back of his neck. “You’re fighting the wrong war,” he pressed.

Enjolras shook his head and grabbed Combeferre’s shoulders. “I have to do this. The people of South Vietnam can’t fight for their freedom alone. Everything else can wait.”

Combeferre crushed the other man to his chest and buried his face in that blond hair that could blind a man if he looked too close. “Just don’t die, okay?” He asked, the tears in his eyes clogging up his throat. 

Enjolras drew back and grasped Combeferre’s elbows firmly. “I’m only off to basic training today. It’ll be eight weeks before I’m in actual combat over in Vietnam. But when I do get there, I might die.” He deadpanned. “So many people have already, and they will be honored by this country and those who value freedom. And I would be proud to join them.”

Combeferre pressed his hand to Enjolras’s cheek, his fingertips digging into the skin behind his ear. “I know you will. But war isn’t this glorified vision of perfection that you’ve built up in your head, Enjolras. I still don’t know if you realize what you’re getting yourself into, but I respect your decision. Just promise me you’ll never stop fighting, no matter what happens. No matter what you see over there.”

Enjolras reached up and placed his hand on top of Combeferre’s. “You know I won’t! I promise, as long as you promise not to stop fighting here. The issues you brought up are important, ‘Ferre, and I wish I could stay and fight all of the battles. But I can’t. So you do what I can’t.”

Combeferre closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Of course I will. We do agree over most things, you know,” he joked.

Enjolras smiled and looked over at the clock as they arrived at his gate just in time. “Well… I guess it’s about time to board.”

Combeferre cupped the other side of Enjolras’s face with his other hand and told him seriously, “I meant it. Don’t die.”

“Death isn’t important. If I do, it’ll be fighting to make people free and safe.” Combeferre kept his gaze steady until Enjolras relented. “But I’ll try not to.”

Combeferre smiled bitterly and embraced Enjolras one last time and for the second time that day, the last image the forlorn saw of their beloved was a fervent smile and one last ripple of blond hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras gets a dose of reality. Grantaire just needs to be loved. They march on Washington and put flowers in the barrels of guns and mourn the destructive power of the war.

February 1965

Once again, Grantaire woke up with no idea where he was. He looked around blearily for some indication of his location and immediately regretted opening his eyes.

Luckily, he knew where he was as soon as he saw the vase of flowers on the table beside his bed and was able to close his eyes a few seconds later.

“Jehan?”

“Yes, love?” The poet answered from a chair on the other side of the room.

Grantaire stretched out on the bed, keeping his eyes closed feeling the dull ache of his entire body. “What was it this time?”

“Straight-up vodka.” Jehan replied delicately, closing the book he was reading.

Grantaire groaned and flipped over on the bed. “How long have I been sleeping?” He mumbled into the pillow.

“About seventeen hours.”

Grantaire groaned again and took a few deep breaths into the pillow.

“Here.” He heard Jehan say from above him.

He had a brief internal debate about the pros and cons of opening his eyes again and resolved that whatever Jehan was handing him would probably be worth it. He braced himself, turned over, and opened his eyes.

It was just as bad as the first time. He felt temporarily blinded, and the light increased the pounding in his head. But he was grateful for the glass of water Jehan was holding out to him.

He took the water and downed the whole thing in a few seconds, something that he was experienced at.

Jehan reached down and stroked Grantaire’s hair while he was drinking. “This is the fourth time this month.”

Grantaire put down the glass with a sigh. “I suppose it is,” he replied, rubbing his eyes.

“Enjolras enlisting has been hard on all of us, you know,” Jehan told him.

Grantaire closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. Why should I care about that? He hates me.”

“He hates what you do to yourself.” Jehan pointed out.

Grantaire closed his eyes and leaned back on the bed. “Yeah… I guess he does.”

Jehan sat down next to Grantaire and began braiding his long black hair. “I do too, you know. You used to be happy even though I knew you were sad, but now it just feels like you’re trying to kill yourself.”

“He didn’t even say goodbye,” Grantaire mumbled.

“Shhhh,” Jehan murmured, laying down beside Grantaire and wrapping his arms around the tired, broken man. “That doesn’t mean you have to do this to yourself.”

Grantaire sniffed and wiped his eyes, looking earnestly up at Jehan. “No,” he shook his head and looked back down at his hands. “No.”

Jehan rubbed his back gently. After a while, Grantaire settled into his soothing arms. It was a new feeling, being held. Grantaire didn’t know what to make it or how he felt, other than warm and safe.

He didn’t leave for a long time, and when he did, they left together.

Because, when it came right down to it, all Grantaire really needed was to be loved, and all Jehan needed was to love.

-

_He wasn’t even a soldier._

_Just a man who’d come to get to the bottom of the war. He didn’t want to fight, just wanted to write. He was a journalist who had just come so that people back home would understand._

_He’d always joke about his bad luck and how it would eventually lead him to an untimely end._

_They should have remembered him as the one who was always laughing at his own jokes. Who always shared his grass with anyone who asked. Who filled his notebook with the monstrosities he had witnessed every night but still managed to make them all laugh._

_But instead he was remembered as the man who didn’t even stumble when the bullet passed clean through his temple. The man who simply collapsed to the ground._

_Because in the movies, they always have time to stumble a few steps backwards, eyes wide with horror. Or maybe the gunshot even makes them fly back a few feet and do some fancy spin on the way down. Or when they do fall down, they should roll around a bit, clutching their wound and gasping._

_But the man who wasn’t even a soldier just dropped to the ground and never moved again._

_Enjolras would remember how the reporter was the only black man in the regiment, and how that was probably the reason the lieutenant wasn’t watching for a sniper when he was out alone, searching for one last spot of sun so that he’d have enough light to write._

-

December 1965

Enjolras came home at eleven-twenty on a Tuesday night. Combeferre had an eight AM class the next morning, but he’d be damned if he missed his boyfriend’s homecoming. He’d already waited two years, but the last thirty minutes seemed like another year completely, he mused as he sat impatiently in the lobby of the airport.

There were two people sitting beside him waiting for the same flight to come in, a beautiful Latino woman and a nervous-looking blond man with cheerful blue eyes.

Joly and Musichetta, they’d introduced themselves.

They both looked anxious and excited.

Their friend was a reporter, they had told him.

They had grown up together in the same town. Roommates at school when they went off to university, all three of them together.

Musichetta would halfheartedly joke through her tears in a few minutes that they did not know how to exist without one another.

Joly would know that it wasn’t a joke.

Combeferre had told them about how he and Enjolras had been much the same, inseparable since they were children. How he’d begged Enjolras not to enlist.

Joly and Musichetta had nodded knowingly and told Combeferre that they hoped Enjolras would be okay. They hadn’t wanted their friend to go either.

They all three held hands during the last five minutes before the flight was supposed to get in. Combeferre was grateful he didn’t have to wait alone.

When Enjolras’s face appeared through the gate, Combeferre almost collapsed with relief.

Joly and Musichetta grinned over at him, so happy for the stranger.

Combeferre grinned back at them before springing up to meet Enjolras.

When he got closer, he saw the look on Enjolras’s face. His earlier burst of relief sputtered out.

His face, always proud and composed, had hardened into stone. His eyes, once bright and encouraged, had gone flat and dull. War had hardened all of his already-hard features and deepened his scowl. They had cut off all of his hair and his uniform made him look like a soldier, a follower. He wasn’t a follower, he was a leader, a doer, a dissident.

It seemed he had forgotten that.

Combeferre approached Enjolras warily, and they simply looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Combeferre didn’t know whether he should embrace Enjolras or try to talk to him or give him space and let him make the first move. Enjolras looked as if he wanted to say something, but his mouth stayed closed. Combeferre knew that he should be satisfied by Enjolras’s obvious disillusionment with the war, but he had expected him to come back empowered to end the war. Not as he looked now, worn and defeated. Combeferre had expected him to change, but he hadn’t expected this.

“They cut your hair,” Combeferre deadpanned, trying to ease the tension.

Enjolras cracked an empty smile. “I was surprised you recognized me.”

Combeferre reached out to touch Enjolras’s newly hardened face tenderly. “What happened to you over there?”

The hard set of his mouth wavered, and Enjolras closed his eyes, leaning into Combeferre’s touch. “You were right,” he whispered.

Combeferre firmly wrapped his arms around Enjolras and pressed the man to his chest, not knowing how to reply. He felt Enjolras take a few shaky breaths and cautiously return the embrace. Combeferre brought one of his hands up to stroke Enjolras’s hair before realizing that it was gone. “That crew cut is going to take some getting used to,” Combeferre laughed uneasily.

Enjolras broke away, smiling that empty smile again, and glanced over at Joly and Musichetta, who had gotten up and were combing the airport for their friend. “Who are they?”

“Just two people looking for someone they know,” Combeferre replied, waving them over.

“I’m so glad your friend returned safely, Combeferre,” Musichetta said warmly. “I’m Musichetta, and this is Joly,” she told Enjolras.

“Enjolras,” he replied, shaking their hands. All business.

“Maybe you saw our friend there?” Musichetta asked. “He was a Negro, bald. Would’ve been laughing all the time. Writing, too. He was a reporter, not a soldier, but he enlisted so that he could get the best stories from behind the scenes instead of relying on what the government told us.”

Joly nodded eagerly. “I told him not to, but he’s always been so stubborn. There are so many southeast Asian diseases he could have gotten. Malaria’s not as big of a health concern anymore now that they know how to properly medicate it, but that doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be horrible to contract. People still die from it even with the medicine. I bet he’s off stuck at an infirmary somewhere, recovering from who-knows-what. He grew up in Detroit—Detroit—so how’s his body supposed to fend off eishmaniasis or schistosomiasis or onchocerciasis or lymphatic filariasis or—”

Musichetta put her hand on his shoulder. “Joly.”

He looked up at her apologetically. “Sorry.”

Musichetta looked back at Enjolras. “So have you seen him?”

Enjolras had a feeling that he knew who they were talking about, but he had to be sure. “What was his name?” He asked slowly.

“Lesgles.” Musichetta said. “But he would’ve gone by Bossuet.”

“Yeah, I saw him there.” Enjolras told them slowly. Their faces lit up. “Most of the people loved him. The ones that weren’t blinded by hate and bigotry, anyway.” They nodded, expecting. “He was kind,” Enjolras said sympathetically. “Wrote some good stories, too, I’d wager. He saw a lot.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” Musichetta asked eagerly.

“He…” Enjolras closed his eyes and took a deep breath, not wanting to see their faces. “He was shot about a month ago.”

Joly and Musichetta were staring back at him dumbly when he opened his eyes. “What do you mean, shot? Where? Is he okay?” Joly inquired mechanically.

“They got him right in the head.” Enjolras told them, his voice wavering. “They say he died before he hit the ground.”

Musichetta’s eyes filled with tears, and Joly let out a muffled sob. Musichetta put her arms around Joly, and he buried his face in her shoulder, his back shaking with sobs. She rubbed his back soothingly, tears silently streaming down her face.

Combeferre looked at Enjolras, not knowing what to do. Enjolras approached them stiffly and put a hand on Joly’s back. “I’m sorry,” he told them.

“Why? It’s not your fault.” Musichetta sniffed.

“His family should have been notified. I’m sorry that they didn’t tell you,” Enjolras said.

Musichetta glanced down at Joly’s broken form, still making circles on his back. “They never really approved of our relationship anyway.”

Enjolras nodded. “If you ever want to talk about him… or anything… just call me, okay?” He handed her a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.

Musichetta looked at him gratefully, tears still glistening in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Enjolras nodded again and walked back over to Combeferre. “Let’s go home.” Combeferre grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze before turning around and leading them back toward the exit.

“Enjolras!” Joly called after him, lifting his head up. “It is Enjolras, right?”

Enjolras turned around and looked pityingly at Joly’s puffy red eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to tell us,” he sniffed.

“I’m sorry it happened at all,” Enjolras replied.

-

Combeferre couldn’t sleep that night. He tried turning on the radio, but that only brought him more reports from the war. He tried counting backwards from one hundred, but he didn’t know what to do when he got down to zero. He tried putting on a soothing record, but the music felt wrong and only succeeded in making him want to cry again.

Peace didn’t feel right. Not when people were needlessly dying oversees. Not when there were more important wars to fight back at home. Not when there oppression and hate was prevalent and poverty accepted. Not Musichetta and Joly would never be reunited with their reporter.

Not when his best friend and other half was looking back at him with those dead eyes, resigned to it all.

When his room started to suffocate him, Combeferre crossed the room and flung open his window, relishing in the fresh evening air. He leaned out the windowsill, feeling the air on his face and looking into the deceptively peaceful night. How could people fall in love, do their homework, take walks in the park, go Christmas shopping when there was still so much work to be done? When everyone was hurting but no one would acknowledge it?

“I can’t sleep either.”

Combeferre shifted his gaze to the doorway where Enjolras was standing in his bedclothes. “I thought it would be easier. Now that you’re back in your own bed and all.”

Enjolras shook his head, biting his lip. “It just makes everything seem unreal, like it never happened. Like I’m powerless to change anything if people are just going to forget anyway.” He paused, then amended himself. “But then again, how could I forget?”

The stone was cracking. Combeferre walked over to Enjolras and grabbed his hands. “Why are you saying this? Talk to me.”

For the first time that Combeferre had seen, tears sprang to Enjolras’s eyes. “You were right,” he choked out for the second time that evening.

Combeferre sat them down on the bed, and Enjolras curled into him, sobbing on his shoulder. “You were right, you were right, you were right.” He repeated.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre told him, clutching him tighter.

“We weren’t ‘fighting for freedom’, no matter what Uncle Sam would have you believe,” Enjolras started. “We did what we were told, they drill that into you at basic training. And then when we got over there, it wasn’t even fighting. It was just marching, all day marching. Town to town, displacing innocent people from their homes. If they protested, we forced them out. If they still wouldn’t leave, they were shot. If anyone suspected that they were communists, they were shot. I shot a few of them, and they could’ve been innocent people, Combeferre, but they ordered me to. I had to, and there was nothing I could do about it,” he got progressively more agitated as he kept talking, and Enjolras was sobbing by his pause for breath.

Combeferre had never seen him like this. Enjolras looked like Joly had looked at the airport. Broken. He was shaking in Combeferre’s arms, and tears flowed in rivers down his cheeks. It was hard for him to speak through the waves of tears and memories, but kept going. “And Bossuet, he—he shouldn’t have died! It was the lieutenant’s job to watch for snipers anytime someone went off alone, and he did it for everyone else, even if they were pissing, and he warned everyone else if he even had a bad feeling not to leave the group for even a few seconds, but he was so disgusted by the color of his skin that he wouldn’t even try to protect his life!” Enjolras fumed through his tears. “And this man in our unit… he raped four Vietnamese women at one of the towns we were at one night. And the lieutenant didn’t even do anything! Even though the bastard bragged about it.” Enjolras clenched his teeth. “He deserved to be shot!” He raged. “Not those villagers. Not even those communists trying to overthrow the government!”

“Good!” Combeferre pressed. “You’re angry.”

“What good does that do?” Enjolras asked exasperatedly through his teeth.

“You used it before, use it now!” Combeferre urged. “What you experienced was terrible, but think of all of the other young men forced to go through it still. In the mess over there, you forgot what you were fighting for. Remember. Remember all of the injustices in the world that you tried so hard to remedy.”

Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’s face and forced him to meet his eyes. “Those causes that you told me not to forget when you were gone… I didn’t. You did. You promised me you wouldn’t stop fighting.” Combeferre looked at him earnestly and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

 

——

 

October 1967

Jehan Prouvaire tried tweaking the white petals a few more times, but he couldn’t get this flower to look just right. He couldn’t leave it looking like it was wilting, listless, apathetic. It needed to spring out of the barrel of the gun pointed at him in a burst of white petals, peaceful yet insistent. His apt fingers fiddled with the petals for a few more moments, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration, until he stepped back, satisfied with his work.

The national guard never took his hard eyes off of the poet. Jehan pitied him. He didn’t know what he was doing, what war he was fighting. He just did what he was told, and here he was. Pointing his gun at another man who had his hands filled with flowers.

Jehan ignored the fact that the rest of the guards behind him had already begun removing the flowers from their guns, smiled serenely at the national guard in front of him, and moved on to the next man.

-

“Have you seen everyone else?” Jehan asked Grantaire when he had completed his baptism of the national guard.

Grantaire, who had dutifully accompanied him, nodded. “Yeah. They’re all with Enjolras near the Pentagon. He’s shouting at some people about self-determination and Civil Rights and shit. You know how he gets. I’m on my way there right now.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you,” Jehan told him, holding out his elbow.

Grantaire smiled and linked elbows with him, and together, they set off through the crowd of antiwar protesters to find the rest of their friends. Jehan had a few leftover flowers, so he thread them through Grantaire’s hair on the way. Grantaire would have told him to pay more attention to his surroundings since they were still surrounded by people who were pointing guns at them. But he figured that putting flowers in his hair while walking was one of Jehan’s most developed skills, so he didn’t object, rather enjoying the feeling of the other man’s fingers in his hair.

-

“Where’ve you been?” Combeferre demanded when they finally got to the Pentagon, cheeks flushed and Grantaire wearing a flower crown. The rest of the group looked over to make sure they were okay before returning their attention to Enjolras.

Grantaire gestured to Jehan boastfully, “He’s just been putting flowers in the guns of half the national guard! If that’s not badass, I don’t know what is.”

Jehan looked back at him and grinned. “Well not to brag or anything, but I think someone from the press got a picture, too. Any luck and this’ll be on the front page somewhere. Who’s the crazy, violent radical now? The man with the flowers or the man with the gun?”

Bahorel looked over at Jehan approvingly. “Well done, man!”

Combeferre nodded. “That’s good. Really good.” Jehan let out a breath in contentment and leaned back against Grantaire. Grantaire rubbed his shoulders affectionately. “I hope it doesn’t get too violent here, though. Enjolras should know that does nothing to help the cause. We need people to see, not write us off as a bunch of crazy, idealistic student liberals.”

Jehan looked around the crowd and saw them getting riled up. The atmosphere was growing increasingly chaotic. People everywhere were shouting and pumping their fists in the air, fervently expressing their agreement with everything Enjolras was preaching. So far, no actual violence had broken out with the police onlookers and the crowd of protesters, but the guard was eyeing the entire scene warily. It looked like it could explode at any minute.

Jehan looked back at Combeferre. “You should probably go up to Enjolras and try to reel him in a little. You’re right. If this gets violent, it’ll do more harm than good.”

Combeferre nodded. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Grantaire wrapped his arms around Jehan’s waist, put his chin on his shoulder, and closed his eyes, trying to block out the noises of protest emanating from his environment. He’d much prefer to listen to his poet’s heartbeat. Jehan sighed and looked around at all of their friends to make sure everyone was safe.

Bahorel was there, eagerly yelling along complements to Enjolras’s running monologue and shoving his meaty fists in the air. Courfeyrac stood beside him, trying to not let him get too out of control while enthusiastically agreeing with him. Feuilly was looking at Bahorel with his eyebrow raised and half a smile on his face, amused as always by the man’s unrelenting spirit. Joly and Musichetta watched Enjolras with identical excitedly defiant expressions on their faces. They stood together as always, arms so intertwined it would have been impossible to tell whose was whose. Even so, anyone could tell that they were incomplete.

Éponine stood alone. “Cosette would have loved this,” she sighed, leaning her head against Jehan’s shoulder.

“She’s coming home in December, isn’t she?” Jehan asked, stroking her hair.

“Yeah,” She sighed. “But who knows if she’ll be the same? She may have fallen in love with some soldier boy. And we all know what happened to Enjolras when he was over there.”

Jehan looked back up at the militant chief standing over everyone on the steps of the Pentagon, his eyes blazing at the national guard standing over on the other side of the street as he vehemently listed off the injustices of the present administration, and realized that she could be right.

“Self-determination was the main idea that formed the peace settlement after World War II. The idea that nations should be able to choose their government for themselves should be still be the controlling idea behind our foreign policy, yet here we are forcing our government on a group of people who don’t want or need it, losing valuable American lives and murdering innocent Vietnamese who just want the chance to make life better for themselves! Not to mention Johnson’s alleged “War on Poverty” that he is abandoning to declare war on an innocent country or unfinished crusades for equality, regardless of race or gender! Are we just going to abandon our ideals in order to fuel some sick, capitalistic bid for power? Is this our international legacy? Is this how we’re supposed to grow as a nation?” Enjolras shouted. The crowd responded enthusiastically, pumping their fists in the air and jeering at the cops.

Combeferre pulled him aside after he paused to let the rhetorical questions sink in. Enjolras looked excitedly at him. “What? Is everything okay? How am I doing?”

Combeferre smiled and grasped his shoulder. “Yeah, you’re doing great. That was a nice note to end on, though. We don’t want it to get too violent.”

“Why not?” Enjolras whined. “We need to show them that we mean business!”

“We also need to show them that we have valid points and deserve to be heard, not condemned and cast off as irrational extremists,” Combeferre explained.

Enjolras sighed and allowed Combeferre to lead him off the Pentagon steps, the crowd still praising him. “Okay, I guess you have a point.”

Combeferre grinned and looked back over at him impishly, “You were magnificent, truly.”

Enjolras beamed back at him. “Truly?”

Combeferre put an arm around his shoulders. “Truly.”

-

Jehan’s picture did make the front page of the newspaper the next day. He became somewhat of a campus celebrity when they got back to school, and Grantaire cut out the clipping to hang it on their refrigerator.

Enjolras sulked whenever he saw it. He wanted that front page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be lying if I said that Bossuet's story isn't based off of Lavender's from The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, which I'd heartily recommend if you're interested in Vietnam at all.
> 
> Also Jehan's actions during the March on Washington (which was a thing) are largely based off of this photograph: http://www.documentingreality.com/forum/f240/flower-power-photograph-october-1967-a-9908/
> 
> Also I'm sorry about Bossuet.


End file.
